


The House That Sam Built

by ghostboi



Series: This Foundation We've Built [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bobby Singer's Panic Room, Bobby's House, Canon Divergence, Castiel in Purgatory (Supernatural), Castiel is family, Codependence, Dean Winchester in Purgatory, Dean and Cas come home, Domestic, Eventual Happy Ending, Flashbacks, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Light Angst, Nightmares, Other, Post-Purgatory (Supernatural), Post-Season/Series 07, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Purgatory, References to Depression, Sam Winchester Has Nightmares, Sam Winchester is Not Okay, Sam Winchester-centric, Singer Salvage Yard (Supernatural), Soulmarks, Soulmates, Who let me write this, dealing with grief, geez I hope this isn't boring he's literally building a house, rufus turner - Freeform, rufus turner is a good friend, sam builds a house, sam's way of dealing with grief, soul marks, winchester brodependence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 13:29:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29576844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostboi/pseuds/ghostboi
Summary: Dick Roman is dead, but Dean and Castiel are gone.Bobby and his house are gone.Sam is trying to cope with his grief and not fall apart.So he builds a house of his own.Sam was going to build the house he had promised his brother so many years ago.[Sam-centric - Sam dealing with grief after losing his brother and their angel. Dean in dreams & more near the end]]
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: This Foundation We've Built [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2188011
Comments: 3
Kudos: 27





	The House That Sam Built

**Author's Note:**

> Taken some liberties here, i.e. bobby’s basement & the panic room surviving the fire. & obviously Rufus being alive.  
> The premise for this mess came to me a long time ago. Finally trying to write it down. Mostly Sam-centric, Dean in dreams & near the end. Soulmarks, but they're not the prevalent plot of the story.

Sam Winchester entered the motel room and shut the door behind him, automatically locking it. He dropped the backpack that hung from one hand to the floor without caring where it landed, dropped the car keys next to it. He shuffled across the room, shedding his jacket as he did, exhaustion etched in every taut line of his body. The big man reached the bed and he sat heavily on it, leaning so that his elbows rested on his knees and his hands hung limply between his thighs. 

He sat that way for several minutes, thoughts in disarray and body weary. Finally he blinked and glanced around the room, as if just noticing he was there. He sighed heavily and struggled to kick off his boots, finally leaning over to loosen the knots tying them. When they were off, he collapsed back on the bed and stared blankly at the ceiling.

Dean was gone.

His brother was gone and he was alone. 

They had set out to kill Dick Roman and, as seemed to be par for the course with them, it had all become a giant clusterfuck. Oh, they had succeeded: His brother and Castiel had ended the Leviathan leader as planned. Dean had shoved the Bone of the Righteous Mortal into his neck and, moments later, Roman had literally exploded in a mess of black tar-like goo and the remnants of his human form. It was the aftermath that had gone horribly wrong. When Sam and Kevin climbed to their feet after the explosion knocked them backward, Dean and Castiel had been gone.

A quick search of the lab had shown that Dean wasn’t there, and panic had set in. He had searched for his brother, searched the building and the surrounding parking areas, knowing he wasn’t there but unable to stop himself. He had called for Cas, to no avail. An hour of searching, two hours, then Kevin had laid a hand on his arm, spoken his name in a gentle voice.

Shock had set in, with it a soul-chilling inability to believe that his brother was gone. Numbness and exhaustion, and he had wanted only to crawl into the Impala and sleep. He had dropped Kevin at the safehouse, muttered something about needing some time, and started driving.

Hours later and his exhaustion had taken hold. In a state of numb despair, he found a motel and checked himself into a room. Now he laid on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

The soulmark on his shoulder had started burning moments after Dick Roman had exploded, just as he realized Dean and Cas were no longer in the lab with them, and was burning slightly still. Sam knew what it meant - it had happened before - and he didn’t want to look at it. He closed his eyes for a moment, then sat up to push up his shirt sleeve. He glanced down at the soulmark - a small crescent moon on his right shoulder. He swallowed hard as he stared at it; already it was fading, the raised lines of it smoothing out and taking on a lighter color. He knew soon it would fade to white, like a small white scar on his skin.

Their soulmarks were there from his birth, Dean used to tell him.

The day Sam was born, a crescent moon on his left shoulder, was the day Dean’s appeared on his right. Light blue in color, outlined in black, like small tattoos. 

Sam raised a shaking hand and brushed his fingers against the Mark, then dropped his hand back to his lap. He fell back on the pillow, eyes on the ceiling again. He swallowed hard and blinked back the wetness in his eyes, his thoughts chaotic. 

They had done questionable things in their lives, fighting monsters and demons, but he felt the good they did outweighed the bad. So why did it seem they were destined to lose everything at every turn?

Dean was gone. No Cas to whom he could pray. No Bobby. Even the comfort and safety of Bobby’s house had been stolen away, burned to the ground in ashes.

A sob escaped Sam as he rolled onto his side and clutched the pillow beneath his head. He was alone - truly alone. Despair seized hold and Sam couldn’t find the will to fight it, so he didn’t. He caved to it and, body aching from their battles with the Leviathan and from the overwhelming, all-consuming loss of his brother, sobbed himself into an uneasy sleep.

Sam slept a handful of hours, waking after sunrise the following day. He woke as exhausted as when he had fallen asleep, his emotions a mixture of numbness and anger and overwhelming grief. As he gathered his backpack and jacket and car keys and moved to leave the room, he vowed to himself to destroy every supernatural creature which crossed his path.

The next five months were a frenzy of tracking and putting an end to supernatural threats. Sam hunted alone, almost robotically efficient, much as he had been when his Soul had still been trapped in the Cage. He avoided other hunters, avoided people altogether when possible. He turned on the charm when necessary to wrangle information from people but otherwise kept to himself.

He also searched for his missing brother and angel. Tracking spells, location spells, interrogating several leviathans before killing them. Even an angel he came across during a hunt, to no avail. Every attempt led to a dead end - there were no signs of Dean and Cas.

The SoulMark faded as the months passed and the more it faded, the angrier and emptier he felt. He grieved in silence, repressed what emotions he could and buried himself in his cases. His dreams when he slept were nightmares, images of Dean and Cas being dragged to dark places, of Dean calling his name, calling for him to help, and Sam unable to reach him. He woke many nights, shaking and breathless, sometimes sobbing, so he kept himself awake as long as he could each night, sleeping only when necessary to function.

Dean’s absence, and Bobby’s, and Castiel’s, was an ache deep inside him, and his Soulmark faded to barely-discernible lines on his shoulder. 

He was a mess. An efficient killing machine but mentally and emotionally a mess. 

Six months after Cas and Dean’s disappearance, Sam found himself standing in Singer’s Salvage Yard, having let himself through the locked chain link gate with the key on Dean’s key ring. He stood for a long time, staring at the scattered ashes and charred pieces of wood which were the remains of Bobby’s old house, lost in thought, in memories of better days in this very spot with Bobby, with his brother. His hazel eyes shifted to the barn Bobby had converted into a workspace and garage for fixing cars, and he headed for the structure. 

The barn door creaked as Sam pulled it open, and he stared inside. Sunlight was shining through the dirty windows and the open door, casting light across the dirt floor. He tried the switch just inside the door, not expecting anything to happen, and was surprised and pleased when the lights flickered on. He blinked at them for a moment, listening to the low hum they made as they burned.

Sam swallowed, memories of times spent in this barn with Dean and Bobby dancing through his head. He wasn’t certain why he was here, why he had come at all, but it had been a pull he couldn’t resist.

He needed away. A place to rest, a sanctuary. Bobby’s had always been that sanctuary, that safe place, for he and Dean both. Sam knew he was breaking apart inside, one hunt, one bad dream, at a time. He could barely hold it together some days. He needed a place of respite, and this place which had been home to him and his brother since they were little kids had been a siren call.

Sam’s eyes shifted to a pile of lumber near the back of the barn, and he crossed to inspect it. He picked up a 2x4, to find it was in good shape. A brief inspection showed the entire pile to be in good condition. A working generator stood near the lumber pile, several gas cans next to it. The barn was littered with tools and car parts and old pieces of machinery. Two large workbenches took up half of one wall.

After looking around the barn for a bit, he went outside and moved toward the rubble that was the remains of the house, an idea forming in his head. He turned the idea over in his mind as he inspected the rest of the salvage yard. One of Bobby’s old trucks was still parked beside the barn - Sam found the keys in the old coffee can sitting on the workbench in the barn. The yard was still surrounded by a tall, chain link fence. Old cars were scattered throughout the property, some piled two or three high. Sam took it all in, and finally came to a decision.

He parked the Impala in the barn-turned-garage that night after locking the chain-link gate at the end of the gravel drive, right over the huge devil’s trap he knew was painted under the old rubber work mats. He grabbed a box of salt from one of the workbenches and put salt lines on the window sills and across the barn’s entry and exit points, then made a circle around the Impala itself. The barn was fairly well protected - Bobby had refreshed the warding symbols painted on the walls just last summer, but exercising extra caution wouldn’t hurt. That done, Sam stretched out in the car’s backseat to try to get some sleep. 

It was the first night in months that he didn’t have bad dreams.

Early the next morning, Sam took Bobby’s old truck to Sioux Falls, stopping at a building supply store. He left with a truckload of lumber, tools and nails, and an order for more to be delivered to the salvage yard the following day. Another quick stop at a supermarket, and he was loading the trunk with non-perishable groceries and a cooler full of ice and sandwich makings.

When he reached Bobby’s old place, Sam grabbed a shovel and wheelbarrow and moved to the remains of the house. For good measure, he retrieved from the barn a second wheelbarrow, slightly more rusted than the first. Sweat dripping from his brow in the midday heat, he went to work, shoveling ashes and charred wood into the wheelbarrow. 

He paused when he came upon objects that were half-charred or intact and placed them in the second wheelbarrow to go through later. Knife blades, shotgun barrels damaged by heat, pieces of fixtures. Half-burned books (and several which didn’t seem to be damaged at all; some type of magical protection, he suspected). He paused once to study a small, metal box which he found beneath the remains of the library desk. He was fairly certain it was a fire-resistant safe - it weighed about 25 lbs and appeared to be intact. He added it to the wheelbarrow to take a look at later, then continued shoveling ashes. 

When night fell, he used some of the wood to build a fire nearby, and pulled some old shop lights on their stands out of the barn. Using extension cords, he plugged up the lights and lit up the area so he could continue to work.

When he finally stopped for the night, the sun had been down for hours and the skies were full of bright stars. Sam flipped off the work lights and extinguished the fire in its ring of stones, then made his way wearily to the barn. He had shoved the sandwich fixings, a case of water, and a case of beer in the old fridge near the workbenches. Opening a pack of paper plates he had bought in town earlier, he made himself a couple of sandwiches, grabbed a bag of chips and a bottle of water, and sat down at the workbench to eat. 

An hour later he had a rough set of blueprints, drawn on paper from an old legal pad. The design was a close replica of Bobby’s house, with the exception of a larger library and a bigger bathroom. He added a last note to the sketch before tossing the pencil on the table and rubbing his tired eyes. The big man stood and stretched, then moved to the coffee pot he had set up on the other table. He prepped it for the morning, adding water from one of the bottles he had bought in town, then a filter and some coffee. Once that was done, he moved to the car to catch a few hours of sleep. Tomorrow he would have to head back into Sioux Falls, maybe rent a room for the next night so he could at least have a shower. Tonight, however, he just wanted to sleep. He crawled into the backseat of the Impala and made himself as comfortable as possible, using a jacket as a pillow. 

_Sam found himself in a dark place when he opened his eyes. He was lying on the hard ground on his back; he blinked at the sky and the trees towering over him, surrounding him, before sitting up. His eyes shifted back to the sky, a crease between his brows. It was an odd color, a shade of orange-brown. He jerked with a start as he heard a familiar voice suddenly,_

_“Sam?”_

_“Dean,” Sam breathed, staring at the figure standing amongst the trees a short distance away. “Dean!” He climbed to his feet and moved toward his brother, but was brought to a halt as he ran into what felt like a wall. “What -- ?” He raised his hands, tried to push forward, but they came to rest against some kind of barrier, something he couldn’t see but which kept him separated from the man on the other side. “What the hell is this? Dean? Dean!”_

_“Sam,” Dean moved closer to the invisible barrier that kept them apart, and Sam’s eyes drank him in. His brother looked rough - stubble on his cheeks, clothes ragged and torn in places, patches of mud on them. Dark circles beneath his tired eyes, streaks of dirt on his hands and left cheek, and a trickle of blood from a cut just below his right temple. Dean pressed his own hands against the barrier, resting them opposite Sam’s. “Sammy.”_

_“Dean,” the younger Winchester couldn’t stop the sob that escaped his throat, “Dean, I couldn’t find you, I couldn’t - I tried, I tried, but you were gone, I couldn’t - “_

_“I know, Sam,” his brother shot him a slight smile, “I know. It’s okay.”_

_“The SoulMark faded,” Sam rested his forehead against the barrier even as he strained the muscles in his arms pushing against it, “You were gone, the Mark faded, I couldn’t -”_

_“Not gone, Sammy,” Dean’s laugh was mirthless, the expression in his green eyes grim, “I’m not dead, not really. Just - lost. Trapped. I’m gonna get out though, I’m gonna find you.”_

_“Where?” He asked desperately, “Where are you, Dean? I’ll come for you, where are you?”_

_“You gotta go,” the man’s features expressed exactly how much he didn’t like that idea, “You gotta go, Sammy. I’m gonna get out of here, I’m going to find you, Sam.”_

_“Dean!” Sam banged his fists against the barrier as some type of mist surrounded the other man, and the images in front of him, his brother, began to fade, “Dean!”_

He woke with a start, a sob tearing from his throat. He sat up, one hand gripping the back of the front seat. His entire body was shaking, heart racing like he had run a marathon, as he reached up to rub the faded SoulMark on his shoulder. The dream was fading, even now, details slipping away before he could grasp them. By the time he had picked up the bottle of water sitting in the floorboard and uncapped it to take a long drink, most of the dream’s details were gone, leaving him with a grasping, uneasy feeling. Most of it except Dean’s face and the words _“I’m not dead, not really. I’m going to find you, Sam.”_

Sunrise found Sam climbing out of the car and pulling a change of clothes out of the trunk. He shucked his clothes from the night before, tossing them in the trunk, and pulled on a faded but clean set of jeans and t-shirt. He would definitely have to rent a room in town this afternoon to grab a shower, or find a truck stop with one.

The big man grabbed a granola bar from the supplies he had purchased in town the previous day and tore open the wrapper as he moved to the coffee pot and turned it on. He wolfed the bar down in three bites as he waited for the coffee to brew. His thoughts touched on his troubling dream from the night before and he frowned, trying to remember details. They eluded him, though. He could only recall that Dean had been there and had said he was going to find Sam.

He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. When his coffee had finished, he poured some in a travel mug he had taken from the Impala and sipped at the hot brew. He exited the barn, mug in hand, and crossed the yard to the fire-damaged remains of Bobby’s house. 

Sam entered the house carefully, ducking beneath a fallen rafter in the doorway. He moved through the remains of the structure, studying it, pausing here and there to prod at a wall or support beam. He paused when he came to the doorway leading to the basement and pulled on the door, which swung upon with little effort. The steps leading down appeared to be in good shape. Sam eyed the door, raised a hand to run it over its surface. _Reinforced steel core, titanium kick plate,_ Bobby had told him once.

The man took five minutes to go back to the barn for a flashlight, then returned to the basement door. He flicked on the light and shone it down the stairway, eyeing the steps that led down into the space. Grasping the door frame for balance, Sam rested a foot on the top step, then some of his weight on it. The step held, no indication that it was going to give way suddenly. 

Sam made his way down the set of wooden stairs cautiously, prepared to have to leap to safety if they suddenly gave way. Probably due to that steel door, they seemed to have escaped the fire damage that had ravaged the upstairs part of the house, and he made it to the basement floor without any issues. A bit of a smile touched his lips as he glanced around the basement. There was some smoke damage and the old scent of burned wood, but most of the basement seemed to be intact. His breath caught in his throat as his eyes fell on the door to the panic room, and he moved to it. He pulled open the door - it swung open easily - and stared inside, a short laugh escaping him.

Bobby’s iron panic room appeared to be completely intact, right down to the sigils painted on the walls. He moved around the room, searching the walls and ceiling and floor for any cracks or breaks, any damage from the fire. Again, the scent of smoke and charred wood lingered, but he found nothing that indicated the room had been damaged in any way. He sat on the cot positioned against the wall and ran a hand through his hair, glancing around the room. 

Sam sat there for a long time, lost in his thoughts. Finally, he stood and left the room, then the basement, to go back upstairs. Once there, he continued his earlier inspection of what remained of the house.

It took him two days and a lot of labor (and swinging of a sledgehammer) to tear down the charred, burned remains of the structure. He used the sledgehammer on the first wall before discovering the backhoe parked between two stacks of rusted-out cars. It went quite a bit faster when he found the keys to that in the same coffee can that held the truck keys. Two more days were spent clearing the foundation, hauling the ashes and burned wood to a spot behind the barn. When the concrete foundation was finally swept clean with an old push broom found in the barn, Sam began to build.

_“What are you doing, Sammy?”_

_“Dean look! I’m building us a house!” He held up two little plastic dolls to show his older brother. “This one is you -” he raised the doll with blond hair, “-and this is me.” He showed Dean the doll with brown hair. “This is our house.” He put the dolls inside the large dollhouse; one was placed carefully on a little plastic bed, and one was placed in the kitchen._

_Dean knelt beside him, glancing around the library, “Dad will have a fit if he sees you playing with dolls, Sam,” the eight-year-old told him in a quiet voice. Sam scowled, eyes on the dolls._

_“We’re gonna have a house like this one day,” he told his big brother, picked up the “Dean” doll, “It’s gonna be nice. It’ll be safe, like Bobby’s house, and we can stay there forever.”_

_He raised his eyes to look at his brother, afraid Dean would have that look of disappointment their father sometimes cast him. Dean was smiling, though. He reached in to pick up the “Sam” doll._

_“We’ll have a dog, too?”_

_“Two dogs,” Sam beamed, “Best friends, like us.”_

_They both looked over, startled, as they heard a deep voice,_

_“What are you two doing?” Their father was standing behind them, staring down at them. His eyes flicked to the dollhouse and he frowned, “You’re not a girl, Sam.”_

_“Dad,” Dean’s voice was quiet, and not only because he was in a library, “He’s four. He’s just playing.”_

_“Not with dolls,” John said sharply, “Put those away, Sam. We’re leaving anyway.”_

_Sam glanced at the man as he strode toward the check-out station, and he started putting away the dollhouse pieces. He glanced at Dean as his brother leaned in to help him._

_“Take care of our house, doll Sam and doll Dean,” his brother whispered to the dolls as he placed them in the little dollhouse living room, and gave Sam a conspiratorial wink._

Sam was going to build the house he had promised his brother so many years ago.

Building a house, especially on your own, was hard work. Sam didn’t mind the labor - it kept him busy, kept his mind occupied. While no carpenter, he had helped Bobby build two of the outbuildings on the property, years back, and the lessons Bobby had given while they constructed the structures seemed to have stuck with him. Videos he found on the internet, pulled up on his phone, helped with the rest.

He was fortunate in that Bobby had most of the needed tools in the garage-barn and the outbuilding which stood closest to where the house had been, including a table saw and pneumatic nail gun.

He laid down the bones of the new structure, one board and one nail at a time. He worked on it several hours in the morning and several in the evening, taking breaks from the heat of the midday sun when it grew too hot, to sit in the barn and read some of Bobby’s old books stashed in the trunk of the Impala. He had added extra wards to the basement, and had taken to sleeping on the cot in the panic room at nights, having left the basement steps intact when he tore down the damaged remains of the house. He also set up a makeshift camp shower behind the barn so he didn’t have to drive to Sioux Falls for a room every night. 

The old fridge in the barn had been stocked with food, he had an old camp stove which had been stored in one of the small outbuildings so he could cook meals, and he had a supply of gasoline in the barn for the generator. 

While some small part of his mind scolded him for not going out and hunting monsters, he knew he needed this. A break from trying to save the world on his own, from risking his life every day. He was self-aware to know that he was not in a good place, mentally or emotionally. He needed this time to himself, working on his attempt at building a house, to pull himself together. 

Sam was standing on a ladder a week and a half into his building project, nailing a board in place, when he heard a vehicle coming up the dirt drive. He raised a hand to shield his eyes, hammer in his other hand, as he stared down the drive. Moments later, a truck drove into view.

He watched as the truck rolled to a stop. The driver sat inside for a few moments before opening the door to get out. Sam climbed down off the ladder, hammer gripped in his hand, and crossed the building site toward the man.

“Hey Sam,” Rufus Turner greeted with a smile, “Been a while.”

“Rufus,” Sam greeted warily, eying the other man.

Rufus chuckled and held out his left hand, “Go ahead, do your tests.”

Sam was motionless for a second, then he hooked the claw of his hammer in a belt loop and pulled a small silver knife from the back pocket of his jeans. He glanced at Rufus’s face as he pressed the flat side of the blade against the other man’s inner arm. The man then remained motionless, waiting patiently, as Sam next pulled a thin flask from his other pocket. He unscrewed the lid and splashed a bit of the water inside – holy water – on the man. The lack of reaction had Sam pocketing the flask and the knife. He extended his own hand and grasped the other hunter’s – again, no reaction from the iron ring he wore against the other’s flesh.

“Hey Rufus,” Sam greeted finally, shaking the other man’s hand, “Good to see you.”

“How are you, Sam? Looks like you’ve been keeping busy,” the hunter nodded toward the skeleton of a house Sam had been constructing.

“Yeah,” Sam nodded, taking his hammer in hand again and leading the other man toward the house frame, “Bobby’s house was beyond saving. Basement survived, though, not much damage to it. Figured I might try to –” He paused, shrugged a shoulder, “ – rebuild, I guess.”

“Looks good,” Rufus eyed the framing critically, “Looks sturdy.” 

“So what brings you to these parts?”

“Radiator hose,” Rufus explained, “This one is leaking, thought maybe there was one lying around here. Mind if I --?” The man motioned toward a row of old vehicles.

“No,” Sam shook his head, “Go right ahead.”

It didn’t take Rufus long to find the part he was looking for, and he returned to the truck. His gaze shifted to Sam, flicked to the SoulMark on Sam’s bare shoulder, faded now. Sam braced himself, prepared to be peppered with questions about Dean, about whether Sam had found any clues about his abrupt and complete disappearance (he hadn’t), if Dean was really gone, as the faded SoulMark indicated. Rufus didn’t question him, however. Instead he motioned toward the hammer in Sam’s hand,

“I’m pretty good with a hammer. Helped build a couple houses in my time. I’d like to help, if you’ll let me. Just point me where to start.”

Sam blinked at him for a moment, surprised. For a moment he almost declined the help. His gaze flicked to the frame he had been building - it was a huge task, a little helped wouldn’t be amiss. “Uh, sure. Okay. Thanks.”

Three nights into it, they were sitting in the barn having a beer when Rufus nodded toward the wheelbarrow of items Sam had retrieved from the rubble. 

“Anything salvageable?”

Sam sat his beer down and got up to pull the wheelbarrow closer. “Couple of things, I think,” he rifled through the items, “Some knife blades, pieces of fixtures. Found a couple of protective amulets, I’m not sure if fire will affect those or not.” He pulled the barrel of a shotgun out of the pile, the stock burned away, “The guns are damaged beyond repair, I think.”

“Yeah,” Rufus agreed, taking the barrel as Sam offered it and looking at it, “Don’t think it would be safe to use ‘em after being in that fire.”

Sam rifled through the items and came upon the metal box he had found. He lifted it from the wheelbarrow and placed it on the work table with a dull clunk. He frowned at it a moment, eyeing the lock - he hadn’t found a key - before trying to latch. “Well,” he spoke aloud as it opened; it had been latched but not locked, “That was lucky.” 

“What’s in it?” Rufus took a pull off his beer, curious gaze on the box. 

Sam opened it, to find it was full of papers. While some appeared to be several years old, others looked much older. He pulled them out carefully and spotted several pictures beneath them. Sam laid the papers aside and picked up the pictures. The first one was a man - obviously a younger Bobby - and a woman: Sam recognized her as Bobby’s wife, Karen. He studied it for a moment before offering it to Rufus, who took it to look at it. 

The second picture was of a young woman with a little boy standing next to her. He suspected it was Bobby as a child and his mother; flipping the picture over revealed ‘mom’ on the back in Bobby’s familiar handwriting. This, too, was handed to Rufus. 

The third picture caused a hitch is Sam’s breath. It was a picture of him and Dean, when they were much younger. He was 14 or 15, so Dean would have been 18 or 19. He stared at it for a long minute, an ache inside him, before flipping it over. His eyes were wet suddenly as he found the words ‘my boys’ scribbled in that same familiar handwriting. After a long minute, he handed it to Rufus.

The other man smiled as he looked at the picture, “Bobby always did think of you boys as his own.”

_It was a week after his 12th birthday and he stared out Bobby’s kitchen window, watching as their dad drove away. He scowled as he watched the tail lights fade into the distance, before turning away from the window. He glanced at Dean as his brother kicked him lightly beneath the table._

_“Stop sulking.”_

_He scowled at the command and started to respond, but was distracted by Bobby placing plates on the table in front of them._

_“Thanks Uncle Bobby.”_

_“Yeah,” Dean added, glancing up at the man, “Thanks for letting us stay here. We’ll try to stay out of your way.”_

_Bobby made a sound akin to a snort as he seated himself across from them, “You boys will never be in my way. I think of you two as my own, this is your home, too. Don’t ever forget that.”_

“I miss him,” Sam shot the other man a smile that was more like a wry grimace, “A lot.” He took the pictures back as Rufus handed them over, and put them back in the box. He turned his focus back to the stack of papers, and began going through them. 

They were assorted documents: a couple of car titles; several fake IDs; a passport; several spells on paper that looked to be older than him. He found the title to the property, and a scrap of paper that had what he guessed were account numbers of some sort, bank perhaps. He unfolded another document that didn’t appear as old as the rest and glanced at it, then froze.

“Sam?” Rufus looked up from the soot-covered candlestick he was holding, “You okay?” 

Sam swallowed and offered the paper to Rufus, who wiped the soot from his fingers on his jeans before accepting it. He glanced over it then let out a low whistle. “He really did think of you boys as his own.”

It was a will. Bobby’s will. It was dated a little over a year before Bobby’s death, and it left everything to Sam and Dean. The house, the property and “all its entitlements”, the car, his library. He had bequeathed two particular guns to Rufus - “Gave me one a couple months before he died,” the man told him, “This here-” he raised the remains of the gun barrel he had laid aside earlier, “-is the other.” Everything else had been left to Sam and Dean.

“It was all yours anyway,” Rufus handed him the will, “Noone would contest that. Guess it’s nice to have it legal though.”

Sam nodded and returned the papers back to the box. He carried it to the Impala and placed it in the trunk, then returned to his beer.

They toasted to Bobby and Dean and Cas, and absent friends.

They finished the framing and had the walls up over the next couple of weeks. It turned out Rufus knew quite a bit about building houses; he instructed Sam on how to hang insulation and sheetrock, and helped him mark spots for plumbing installation. They worked together during the days and evenings, and at night, Rufus drove into town to stay with a friend. Sam offered him a spot in the panic room, but the other man declared he was “too old to sleep every night on a camp cot”. He suspected it was Rufus’s way of giving him his space after working together all day, which Sam appreciated. 

Nights were hardest for Sam because, while he hadn’t had any more of the realistic dreams of Dean in that dark place with the invisible barrier separating them, he was still dreaming about his brother almost nightly. Some were memories coming back in his dreams, and some were him and Dean sitting on the Impala having a conversation, or sitting with Bobby having a beer, or he and Dean and Cas on a hunt. Some were far less pleasant, dreams of Dean being take from him, or he and Castiel trapped some place where Sam couldn’t reach them.

Rufus staying in town meant he wasn’t hearing Sam wake every other night gasping for breath or, some nights, sobbing. 

“You don’t have to do this, you know.”

Three weeks after Rufus had offered his help, and Sam had just spoken the words out loud (again).

“I know,” Rufus said simply, “Hand me that tape, wouldja?”

Sam handed over the measuring tape, watched as Rufus measured the width of a door frame they had just installed, then nodded, satisfied.

“I just -- You probably --“ Sam hesitated, eyes on the recently-installed sub-flooring.

“You’re not keeping me from anything, Sam,” the older man assured, looking at him, “I needed a little break from hunting, and if anyone needs my help they’ll gimme a call. Right now I’m right where I need to be.”

Sam nodded, momentarily speechless. “Thanks,” he said quietly, meeting the other’s gaze, “I appreciate everything you’re doing, Rufus.”

“Bobby was my friend. Ain’t right that him and his house are both gone. This feels like righting a wrong or something, y’know what I mean?” The other man smiled and clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Now, my guy - the electrician I was telling you about? - he’s going to stop by tomorrow to take a look. Said he’s free this weekend and can help us get everything wired.”

Sam started to speak again but Rufus waved him off before he could say anything, “Already told you he said he’s not charging for it, he’s doing it as a favor. Thinks he owes me for saving his wife a couple years back from that okami.”

Rufus dragged him into town that night for dinner and a couple of beers. “Gotta eat somethin’ other than sandwiches and canned crap, Sam.” Sam had to admit to himself it was a nice change from eating alone in the barn. They sat at a table in the diner for a couple of hours, chatting and drinking coffee. Rufus regaled him with old stories of hunting trips with Bobby and other hunters he knew, and they talked about their work on the house. 

“How you really doin’, Sam?” Rufus asked after a while, “And don’t give me that crap about how fine you are. I know you’re missin’ Dean a hell of a lot more than you’re sayin’.”

Sam was silent for a long minute, toying with his fork. “Surviving,” he said finally, voice quiet. Hazel eyes flicked to Rufus, “I do miss him. It’s - “ He shrugged his shoulder and repeated, “Surviving.” 

“Guess that’s all you can do, until you figure out something else.”

_Later that night, Sam opened his eyes to find himself lying on his back, trees stretching high above him, limbs half-blocking the odd orange-brown sky. He sat up quickly, looked to his left, and his breath caught in his throat._

_“Dean.”_

_His brother was sitting a short distance away, elbows propped on his knees, watching him._

_“Hey Sammy.”_

_His heart ached at the sound of his brother’s voice, and he scrambled to his feet. Dean stood as he moved toward him; Sam breathed a curse as he found himself up against that same invisible barrier which had separated them once before._

_“Dean,” the word was an anguished plea from his lips, and the older Winchester closed his eyes briefly, “What is this place? Why can’t I reach you?” He smacked his hands against the barrier, trying to push past it, but it was wasted effort. A soft sob escaped his throat as he banged his fist against whatever force kept them separated. It wasn’t fair! Dean was right there, right there! Close enough to touch but Sam couldn’t reach him, couldn’t get to him.._

_“Sam,” as he had the first time, Dean raised a hand and laid it against the barrier on his side, resting it opposite Sam’s so that they were pressed together. “It’s okay, it will be okay. I’m gonna get out of here, I’m gonna find you.”_

_“Bobby’s,” he laid his forehead against the barrier, tears slipping from his eyes as Dean did the same, “I’m at Bobby’s. I’m rebuilding the house. I miss you, Dean. This is killing me, I don’t know what to do. I miss you.”_

_“I miss you too, Sammy,” the words were soft but Sam heard them in spite of that, “Hang on, little brother. Just need a little more time.” His brother’s eyes were wet as their gazes met, and Sam’s heart ached all the more for it._

_“You gotta go now,” the other man told him, and he shook his head no, frantic._

_“No,” his voice was a plea but he couldn’t help it, “I don’t want to leave you, I don’t want you to be alone. I wanna stay with you.”_

_“I know, me too, but you can’t. Cas is with me, it’s okay. You can’t stay here, Sam. You gotta go. I’ll see you soon.”_

_“Dean. Dean!”_

_His brother was surrounded by some kind of mist, and Sam banged his fists against the barrier, “Dean!”_

_But he was gone, and Sam was alone again._

He woke shaking, face wet with tears. Sam sat up on the cot, arms wrapped around himself and head bowed, and tried to fight back the need to break down and sob. He didn’t understand these dreams or what they meant. Was this some kind of connection with his brother, some mental link to Dean, wherever Dean had gone? Was it a premonition of some kind? He knew it was foolish to get his hopes up; by all accounts, his brother was dead, or had been taken to some alternate dimension, or something. He knew he shouldn’t expect Dean to reappear out of thin air and find him, but he _wanted_ to believe it, damnit. 

He knew the absence of his brother, the loneliness and heartbreak and grief, was worse because they were Soulmates, though he suspected it would have been just as bad if they hadn’t been. They were, though, and it made his loss of his brother all that more painful. The bond between them had been torn apart, and he felt hollow, empty.

For all the good they had done for others through the years, for the world, why was this their fate?

Sam pushed himself off the cot and moved to the panic room’s doorway. He didn’t bother to wipe the tears from his face, didn’t try to stop new ones from falling, as he leaned his head against the door frame. His voice was barely more than a whisper, cracked when he spoke,

“Cas? Are you out there, Cas? If you are, please, please.. Cas please.”

He didn’t expect a response, though he hoped like mad for one. Perhaps it was the angel warding sigils painted on the walls behind him, but he didn’t think it was that. Cas was gone, just like Dean was gone. 

Sam moved to lay on the cot, weary to his core. He drew the blanket up around his shoulders and, after a long time, fell back into a fitful sleep. 

It took another two months before the house was finished. Rufus left twice to help someone on a hunt, but he returned both times once it was finished, brushing aside Sam’s concerns that he was putting his life on hold to help Sam. He contacted “a guy” at some point who owed him a favor, who just so happened to be a plumber, to help them run pipes and plumbing. When Sam offered to pay him for his time, the guy, a big bear of a man, waved him off with a deep chuckle and said simply, “I owe Rufus.” 

In the room which was to be the library, they added built-in bookshelves along the entire lengths of the walls. Sam had some of Bobby’s books, and locations of others which had been stashed in various places; he intended to rebuild the library. 

They picked up a set of kitchen cabinets and a kitchen sink; some of the windows and doors; two bathroom cabinets; and a fairly nice shower stall unit, from a resale/thrift shop in a town near Sioux Falls, and installed them themselves. The remaining windows and doors, along with the rest of the bathroom fixtures and kitchen appliances (including a dishwasher because if he was doing this he was going all out), were purchased from a Lowe’s in the same town. He maxed out one of his alias credit cards in the process of outfitting the house, but the items weren’t being delivered and he didn’t give an address, so he wasn’t concerned.

The rooms needed painting whichever color Sam decided to paint them, and furnishing, but the structure itself was finished. It wasn’t simply a skeleton anymore, but a house. A close replica to Bobby’s old home, with a few changes and additions: An extra bedroom, the bigger library, a bigger kitchen with a built in pantry (which had been Rufus’s idea). Enlarging the downstairs bathroom and adding a space for a washer and dryer had also been the other man’s idea. “Beats hauling it up and down the basement steps,” he had remarked sagely. 

There were a few extra touches of Sam’s own, such as recess behind one of the built-in bookshelves, which had been a tricky bit of business to install but they had finally managed it. A small release lever beneath one of the shelves allowed the bookshelf to swing away from the wall, opening to a space two feet in depth. It would be a place to store weapons later, once everything else was finished. There was a similar hidden space behind one of the shelves in the pantry; behind a false wall in the front hall closet; and behind false walls in all three upstairs bedroom closets. 

There were also the iron filings and salt he added to the primer which went up on the walls, to be painted over later, and the large Devil’s Traps he and Rufus burned into the sub-flooring and ceiling of every room with some small butane torches that Rufus had in his truck. Iron filings and salt had been mixed into the concrete used to lay the bricks for the fireplace and chimney in the living room, and had been caulked into the sills of each window and entry way. 

“This place should be a supernatural fortress by the time you’re done,” Rufus had chuckled, finishing the caulking on a window sill. 

The two men stood outside the house one morning after adding the final screen door to the back door, staring at it. “I can’t believe we’re finished,” Sam chuckled, hands shoved in his pockets, “I can’t believe we did all this.”

“We did,” Rufus grinned, “I think we owe ourselves a celebratory beer.”

Sam used Bobby’s old truck and they made a run to one of the Walmarts in Sioux Falls. He was pretty sure he almost maxed out a second credit card buying necessities such as sheets and blankets and towels, dishes and other household items, and stocking up on food for the new kitchen. He picked up two bed frames and two queen foam mattresses (which were rolled up in boxes and amused Rufus to no end) in the furniture department, and a dining room table and chairs, the display of which seemed fairly sturdy, considering it was from Walmart.

Another stop at another local resale store, and they procured a used washer and dryer set. Rufus negotiated $100 off the original price of $350 by mentioning to Sam he had seen a set for cheaper at a shop across town and he was sure they could get a good deal there. It was loaded onto the back of the truck with everything else and tied down with rope.

Rufus insisted on helping him carry it all into the house and put it all together, though Sam assured him he had done enough and needn’t do more free labor. The other man stared at him, brows raised, until Sam threw up his hands and handed him a screwdriver.

They went into Tea that night, a small town about half an hour from the Salvage Yard, for dinner and the promised beers, and found a back table in a local restaurant called Squealer’s Smoke Stack. It was a barbeque joint, and Dean would have loved it. Sam commented such out loud, and Rufus gave him a small smile.

“I know you miss him,” the older man said, “What are you gonna do now, Sam? Early retirement from the hunting life?”

“I don’t know,” Sam admitted, fidgeting with a spoon, “I probably won’t give it up for good, not when there are things out there killing people. Just - “ He swallowed, eyes on the table, trying to put his thoughts into words.

“You need some time,” Rufus finished. Sam nodded, and the other man went on, “Not a damn thing wrong with that. You and your brother, and that angel of yours, and hell Bobby, you all have done more to fight out supernatural bastards than anyone. You don’t owe anyone anything, Sam, and you’ve lost more than most. If you need to stop hunting, ain’t a damn thing wrong with that. Take the time you need. Rest of us will be around if you need us.”

“Thanks Rufus,” Sam said softly, eyes meeting the other man’s and seeing the sincerity in his words, “I appreciate that.” 

Rufus nodded, glancing at the server approaching the table. “Some people cope by drinking, some cope by building a house. Now, let’s celebrate a job well done, and hope it don’t fall down around you the first time you close the front door. I mighta missed a nail or two putting up those walls.”

It was late when they left Tea so Rufus stayed at the new house that night, crashing on one of the beds they had put together that afternoon. Sam fell asleep on the other bed, in the room which would be his, only to wake early the next morning, another unsettling dream chasing sleep away. He let Rufus sleep as he went downstairs to make coffee. 

He stared around the kitchen as he waited for the coffee to finish brewing. It was hard to grasp that he had built this, that this new home was his. The sense of accomplishment, the happiness, that filled him was clouded a bit because Dean wasn’t here to celebrate it with him, but it couldn’t be crushed. It sent a feeling of warmth through him that he hadn’t felt in a long time, not since that afternoon his brother and their angel had stabbed a Leviathan through the neck and had disappeared. A grin touched his mouth as he ran a hand over the countertop, one he had picked out and he and Rufus had installed.

He smiled again while fixing bacon and eggs for breakfast, that feeling of warmth staying with him. When he had finished breakfast and his coffee, leaving a plate in the microwave for his house guest and a note on the table, he pulled on his boots and left the house.

When Rufus found him 45 minutes later, Sam was running a single-rotary rotary plow along the fenceline near the chain link gates. It had a furrower attached, and was digging a row behind him about 12” deep. He ran it about 50 feet, then went back to the beginning of the row, where a wheelbarrow with several large buckets in it sat. He raised a hand to Rufus as the other hunter approached, before dipping an old coffee can into one of the buckets with a gloved hand. He moved to the dug furrow and began carefully sprinkling the contents of the can - iron filings and rock salt - into the row. 

Rufus watched him for a moment, then turned to stare at the chain link double gates that crossed the drive. He eyed the hill of dirt crossing the drive - Sam had started there, filled it with his mixture, and covered it up already - then turned back to the younger hunter. 

“You gonna put this stuff around the whole property line?”

“Yeah,” Sam nodded, emptying the iron-salt mix into the end of the dirt row and moving to grab his shovel so he could cover it, “Time-consuming and might not be perfect, but I’m gonna do what I can. Think it’s too much?”

Rufus shot him a toothy grin, “I think this place is going to be a damn fortress against most things that wanna kill you when you’re done. Give me that shovel. You dig the rows and I’ll cover it up.”

The property was several acres, and there were several spots where they had to work around large trees edging it, but they finished the job that afternoon. The rest of the evening was spent moving pieces of furniture into the house, which Sam had discovered stashed in one of the small buildings. Two dressers and a chest-of-drawers, an old coffee table, a couple of end tables and a nightstand. The furniture dolly Rufus found in one of the buildings made the task easier, though the steps were still a bitch. Rufus grumbled about being sore for a week, but it was good-natured and Sam made him a steak dinner for all his effort.

The morning after that, Rufus got a call from a hunter friend needing his assistance. Sam helped him load up his truck, adding a box of snacks for the road which also included a new first-aid kit stuffed full of bandages and tape and other medical supplies, a couple boxes of ammo, and a bottle of whiskey. 

“Be safe, Rufus,” he embraced the man in a hug, “Thank you, for everything. You’re welcome here any time, not just to come help me build something. Call me if you need me.” 

They said their goodbyes and Sam raised a hand in a wave as Rufus drove down the drive. When the truck was out of sight, he sat down on the front step of his house ( _his house!_ ) to enjoy the sunshine.

He spent the rest of the day putting things where they belonged. He hung blinds, he put away dishes, he wiped down the antique furniture they had moved into the house last night, inside and out. It was when he carried his duffel bags - and the duffel bag from the trunk that still had Dean’s clothes in it - that it hit him. He dropped the bags on the floor and sat down against the wall, staring around. 

This was actually his place. His home. That feeling of warmth ran through him again, but it was chased with sadness. All his life he had wanted something like this, a real home, not just for himself but for Dean also. And Cas, too, once the angel had entered and become such an integral part of their lives. A place to come back to between hunts, to one day retire in, to find safety and comfort when it was needed.

He had that now, but Dean wasn’t here. Cas wasn’t here. He couldn’t see his brother’s face light up the way it did when he was pleased with something, when he discovered some small thing that amused him. He couldn’t see Cas’s puzzled expression when some “very human” thing perplexed the angel. He couldn’t see anymore that soft smile that touched Dean’s lips when he was content, happy. 

Something tickled Sam’s cheek and he rubbed at it, a little surprised to find his fingertips wet. Tears again. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately. He huffed and shook his head and shoved himself to his feet. He grabbed the duffel bags and went upstairs to put the clothes away.

_Sam opened his eyes to find himself lying on his back. He blinked up at the trees towering over him, brows furrowed. This place was familiar, it was -- He sat up suddenly and looked to his left as he breathed,_

_“Dean.”_

_He was there, near the trees. Hidden in shadows but it was him, Sam knew it was him. He shoved himself to his feet and moved forward, coming upon that invisible barrier after a few steps._

_“Dean!”_

_Dean moved out of the shadows then, right up against the barrier that separated them._

_“Sam,” his brother raised a hand and pressed it against the barrier, opposite Sam’s own hand._

_“I miss you,” Sam spoke the words quickly, knowing he wouldn’t have much time here, “Dean I miss you. Where are you? I’ll find you, just tell me where you are.”_

_“Miss you too, little brother.”_

_The words sent a sharp pain right through Sam’s heart, and he balled his hands into fists, the urge to bang them against the barrier, to try to break through it, taking hold of him._

_“I’m lost here,” he whispered, forehead pressed against the invisible wall between them, “Everything’s empty without you. Where are you, Dean? I tried to find you, I swear I tried. The SoulMark says you’re gone but I keep finding you here..”_

_“Soon, Sammy,” the other man mirrored Sam, rested his forehead against the barrier too, “I’ll get out of here and find you soon.”_

_“Dean - “_

_Dean looked over his shoulder suddenly, a scowl touching his features. His green gaze shifted back to Sam, “You have to go.”_

_“What’s wrong?” Sam glanced past his brother to stare at the line of trees behind Dean. Hazel eyes met green as Dean spoke again,_

_“We’re connected, don’t forget that. I’ll find you. Sam, you have to go.”_

_“No,” Sam watched as that odd mist surrounded Dean and the man seemed to be fading before his eyes, “Dean, no, don’t leave me!”_

_“Soon, Sammy,” his brother gave him a small smile before the mist overtook him and he was gone._

Sam woke with a gasp, eyes opening to stare at a white ceiling. It took him a moment to realise he was lying in bed, in his new house. He lay motionless for a long minute, before rolling onto his side, tears in his eyes and Dean’s words from the dream echoing in his head. _“Soon, Sammy.”_

Dean Winchester opened his eyes and blinked, taking in his surroundings. Gray landscape, gray skies traced with an odd orange-brown hue. His gaze shifted to the being on his right, whose gaze was alternating between him and the surrounding landscape.

“Did you dream of your brother again?” Castiel asked, shifting the long, sharpened spear, made of the branch of a tree, from his right hand to his left. 

Dean nodded in silence, reaching up to rub his right shoulder and the crescent moon SoulMark there, as Cas met his gaze. Blue eyes studied him for a moment, head tilted slightly. “You believe they’re more than dreams?”

Dean nodded again, an ache in his chest as he thought of his brother. The pain and despair in dream Sam’s eyes created an itch beneath his skin, and he rubbed his eyes wearily. Both turned to stare into the surrounding trees as they heard a distant noise to their right. 

“I agree,” the angel said, glancing back at the hunter, “Even this place cannot break your connection with Sam.” 

“Tomorrow,” Dean muttered, voice gruff and slightly hoarse. 

“Tomorrow,” Cas agreed quietly, “We’ll meet the vampire and find the portal and you’ll be free of this place.”

“We,” Dean shot him a look that said they’d had this conversation before, “We’ll be free of this place.”

“Dean - “

“You’re coming with us and that’s final,” Dean shoved himself to his feet, grasping his own sharpened spear.

“We’re not even sure I can get out, Dean. I brought the Leviathans to Earth. I’m the reason Roman was on Earth and Bobby was killed,” there was anguish in the blue eyes, “and so many others. I deserve this punishment.”

“Tough shit,” the other man glared at him, “I’m not leaving you behind.”

When Castiel began to protest again, Dean hissed, “You’re family, damnit. You’re coming home.”

Castiel stared at him for a moment, before swallowing hard and nodding. They glanced to their right again as another distant noise, like cracking brush, sounded from the trees. 

“C’mon,” Dean snagged the sleeve of Cas’s torn, dirty trench coat and tugged him along behind him, “Let’s get moving.”

When Sam woke from a confusing dream six days later, he was gasping for breath and his SoulMark was burning. He frowned and shoved his sleeve up to look at it, the dream forgotten already. His breath caught in his throat as he saw that the crescent moon on his shoulder was reappearing before his eyes, detailed and vibrant as if someone had just tattooed it there.

His voice was a cracked whisper, 

“Dean.”

He shoved himself out of his bed and had just descended the stairs when he heard voices outside the house. He half-stumbled to the window and, peering between the blinds, froze.

Dean. Dean and Castiel.

“Dean,” the word was little more than a croak from his suddenly-dry throat and he ran to the front door. He didn’t bother with shoes, just unlocked and jerked the door open and rushed out onto the front step --

\-- and found himself staring into a pair of green eyes that he knew better than his own.

“Dean?” 

The question, his brother’s broken voice, prompted Dean to stop staring at his brother and speak,

“Hey’ya Sammy.”

This was another dream. Worse than any nightmare because it was so real, because it sounded exactly like Dean, looked exactly like Dean. Dean’s green eyes and hesitant smile. And behind him, Castiel still wearing the hospital scrubs, dirty and ragged, he had been wearing when he disappeared, his hair messy and his trenchcoat dirty and torn. His own hand reached for Dean, touched the other man’s arm, and -

A sob escaped Sam and he lunged forward, throwing his arms around his brother. Dean moved in to grab him, pull him in a tight embrace, and Sam clung to him. “Not a dream,” the bigger man whispered, the feel of his brother solid and strong in his arms, “You’re not a dream.”

“No,” Dean rested his head against Sam’s, nuzzled his nose in Sam’s clean hair to inhale the scent of him, “Not a dream, Sammy.”

Sam raised hazel eyes filled with tears to look at the other man, drinking in the site of him, hands moving to grasp Dean’s arms. His gaze shifted to the angel behind the other hunter, and Castiel shot him a weak smile,

“Hello Sam.”

Sam hugged his brother again - Dean seemed to be clinging to him as hard as Sam was to Dean - and reached almost blindly toward Cas. He caught the angel’s coat sleeve and pulled him forward to wrap an arm around him, too. Castiel seemed to resist for a fraction of a second before practically melting in Sam’s embrace.

He wasn’t certain how long he stood there, clinging to his brother and their angel. He finally pulled back to search Dean’s face. His brother looked worn, exhausted, wary. His eyes kept shifting from Sam to the Yard around them, as if searching for something. Sam realized almost immediately he was searching for threats.

“You’re safe,” he wasn’t certain what caused him to say the words - Dean’s roaming eyes, perhaps, or the wariness in his features, “It’s safe here, Dean.”

Dean swallowed, met his gaze and nodded. The other man looked up at the house behind Sam,

“This the house you said you were building? It’s,well, beautiful.”

“I knew they weren’t just dreams,” Sam whispered, reaching up to touch his brother’s face as their gazes locked again. He blinked, shook his head a little, and smiled at his brother.

“Yeah,” he motioned toward the house, “Yes. I didn’t do it alone, Rufus Turner helped. A lot, actually. But yeah, we built it. Come in.” He opened the door and stepped aside, and Dean and Cas entered the house.

He led them into the kitchen, watching as Dean looked around the place. He retrieved several bottles of water from the fridge as they entered, motioned for them to have a seat at the table.

“It’s nice,” Dean said finally, “Really nice. Did a good job, Sam.”

Sam gave a nod of thanks, then asked “Where were you, Dean? You were gone so long, I thought - the soulmark faded, I thought -” 

“How long?” Dean fidgeted with the cap of the water bottle, eyes on Sam.

The younger Winchester grimaced a bit and then answered softly, “A year last week.”

“A year,” Dean blinked, glanced at Castiel, who was frowning slightly, “A year?”

Sam nodded, throat working with the emotions filling him, “I thought - The soulmark faded, I thought you were dead, Dean. Then this morning I woke up and it was there, reappearing as I looked at it. What happened? You just disappeared after Roman, where - ?”

Dean was staring at the table, brows drawn together. Sam didn’t think he was going to get an answer, but then Castiel spoke, 

“Purgatory.”

The older hunter shot the angel a glare, but Cas merely stared back. “He needs to know, Dean.”

“Purgatory,” Sam whispered, stunned, “You- How?”

“Killing Roman sent him back to Purgatory,” the angel explained, “but we were close enough that it dragged us there with him.”

Sam stared at him for a moment in disbelief before shifting his eyes to his brother, “That’s why I couldn’t find you,” he whispered, “and - and why the Mark faded. How did you get out?”

Between them, they told him. Castiel did most of the talking - Dean appeared uneasy and restless throughout, but added a bit here and there. They told him about the monsters they encountered, about meeting the vampire Benny, about finding the portal which was like a backdoor for trapped humans. The spell which allowed Dean to carry Benny out, and he and Castiel escaping and coming out in 100-Mile Wilderness, Maine. Cutting his arm to set Benny free, and Castiel transporting them both here, to the scrap yard. 

“Time is different there,” Castiel explained, “It wasn’t a year there, only several months.”

“Didn’t even check to see if it was really us,” Dean reprimanded his brother, but it was half-hearted at best. His confidence and trust in Sam was etched in his features. He raised a brow as Sam chuckled and told him, “Trust me, if you were something else, you probably couldn’t even set foot in the house. If it wasn’t you the SoulMark wouldn’t have come back.” 

He knew that with every fiber of his being: even demons and shapeshifters couldn’t replicate SoulMarks, they both knew from experience, though hadn’t figured out why. Creatures could create a Mark but it was obviously “off”, easy to discern as such, as it was the time a shapeshifter tried to impersonate Dean.

Dean nodded, eyes on the table still. He raised them to glance at Sam, and Sam saw a hint of uncertainty on his features, a touch of fear. He studied his brother, brows furrowed slightly as he tried to puzzle out the expression. 

Sam knew Dean better than he knew himself, and knew his brother was worried Sam was going to think less of him somehow, was going to think him unclean or something, for being trapped in Purgatory.

He reached for Dean’s hand across the table and clasped it, pleased when his brother squeezed his hand instead of pulling away, “It’s okay, Dean.” His eyes said it all, and Dean relaxed visibly, “You’re home now. Just - tell me what you need.”

“A shower,” Dean half-joked, motioning to the dirty, torn clothes he was wearing. 

“Yeah,” Sam jumped to his feet, “Of course. C’mon, I’ll show you guys around the place, and you can clean up and get some rest.”

Sam guided them through the house on a little tour, watching as they took everything in. Dean paused in the living room to study the framed pictures Sam had hung on the wall a few days ago. Most had been printed from Sam’s phone at a local Walmart, but several had been stored in a box in the Impala’s trunk. There were hanging pictures of him and Dean together; of Bobby; of them with Bobby; an old picture of their parents when they were young; of Dean and Castiel; of the three of them together. 

Castiel was startled to see pictures of himself among the others. The angel stared at him, an expression that could have been awe, or surprise, or confusion, on his face when Sam said simply, “You’re family, Cas.”

As he led them through the house, he told Dean about finding Bobby’s will, and that the property had been left to them in it. Dean swallowed hard at that, looking away to hide the emotion on his face. Sam understood the sentiment all too well. He went on to tell them about the house’s extra protections - the devil’s trap and demon-warding symbols burned into the walls and beneath the floors; the iron and salt in the paint and around the windows; the weapons stash hidden behind the bookshelves and in the closets; the extra protection along the property lines.

Dean’s quick grin and “Impressive, Sammy,” brought a smile to his own mouth.

“I added an extra bedroom,” he was telling them as he led them up the stairs, “and another bathroom. Few other things but I’ll show you those later. Dean, I - “ He swallowed hard, “I put your clothes in that room there, next to mine. Couldn’t - didn’t want to get rid of them. Cas, your room is here at the end of the hall.”

Sam glanced over his shoulder as he said the words, then stopped. Dean, walking behind him, stopped also, and half-turned to look at the angel. Castiel had halted and was standing, motionless, staring at Sam. His blue gaze flicked to the room, then back to Sam.

“My room?” he asked finally, his voice almost fragile.

“Well,” Sam rubbed the back of his neck, “Yeah. I mean I thought you were both - “ He swallowed and bit his bottom lip, “Thought you were both gone for good when I was building the place, but - “ He shrugged a shoulder and smiled a bit, “- guess I was hoping you’d come back.”

“My room,” Cas repeated softly, moving forward to peer into the bedroom.

“Yeah,” Sam said again, “If - if you want to stay here, I mean. With us. You don’t have to, of course, but I was kind of hoping - “ He trailed off, glanced at Dean and then at Cas.

The smile that touched Castiel’s lips, the surprised but pleased look on his face, sent a rush of warmth through Sam, and he chuckled softly. “We’ll have to get you some clothes but you can borrow some of mine until then, and -”

Sam found himself engulfed a second later by his brother as the older man pulled him into a tight hug. Castiel moved forward then and embraced them both, resting his head against Sam’s, and Sam held them tight with everything in him.

That night, when Dean appeared in his open doorway, Sam simply raised the blanket covering him and gave a slight jerk of his head. Dean moved to the bed and crawled beneath the blanket without a word. Sam didn’t say anything as his brother scooted closer, simply covered them both with the blanket and rolled over to drape an arm over Dean’s waist. He felt his brother relax after a long moment.

“Haven’t had a good night’s sleep in a long time,” the man admitted, voice low in the dark, “Never was safe.. there.”

“You’re safe here,” he promised. Dean nodded and murmured, “I know. Always am with you, Sammy.”

“I missed you,” he whispered once they had both settled down. Dean turned his face toward him to study him in the dark. 

“I missed you too, Sammy. Part of what kept me going in that place was the need to get back here, with you.”

Sam tightened his hold on his brother, and Dean leaned forward and dropped a brief kiss on his forehead.

“Welcome home, Dean.”

**Author's Note:**

> Squealer's Smoke Shack is a real place in Tea, South Dakota - https://www.squealerssmokeshack.com/


End file.
